


burn the past (and rise up from the ashes)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hydra Grant Ward, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3961213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would Simmons be doing at a base without a lab?</p>
            </blockquote>





	burn the past (and rise up from the ashes)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, look, more post-rock fic. Just what everyone needs.
> 
> Title is from The Letter Black's _Up From the Ashes_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Grant knows he’s pretty unique, as far as modern HYDRA heads go.

For one thing, he’s the _only_ head these days. For another, he goes into the field on a pretty regular basis. Maybe that was common during World War II, but now? Not so much. His agents don’t know what to make of it, but one of the great things about being a leader is never having to explain yourself—especially when you’re a leader like Grant, because then people are too frightened to question you.

If he _were_ inclined to explain himself, he might tell them that he didn’t spend more than fifteen years busting his ass training just to let his skills atrophy in that nice, shiny office he’s got. He might tell them that letting himself get rusty is a sure-fire way to find himself with his head cut off. He might tell them that paperwork is boring or that he feels the need to keep a close eye on them or that he likes to keep his hand in, just in case something interesting crops up on a mission.

None of those answers would be lies. That doesn’t mean that they’re the truth.

But he doesn’t think about the truth—about the imaginary ghost in his office, about Kara’s frowning disapproval as he builds the organization that helped destroy her back to its former glory—unless he can help it.

The point is, Grant still goes into the field. Not on every mission—not even on most missions—but he goes into the field.

Which is why he’s present at the isolated SHIELD base in Washington state when something interesting crops up.

It’s the fifth SHIELD base they’ve hit in the last six months, and he knows there’s _something_ here. They’ve been keeping an eye on SHIELD’s traffic (for some unfathomable reason, they’re still at the Playground, which is just…so completely stupid that Grant can’t even articulate how unimpressed he is), and there’s been a lot of it back and forth to this base. But none of the files they’ve taken on their other raids—and they’ve taken a lot—have made any mention of it.

There’s something here. He just doesn’t know what.

Until, that is, Markham—one of his best specialists—interrupts his questioning of the base’s lead agent.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” he says, without a second glance at the man bleeding all over the floor. “I think we’ve found what made this base so important.”

“Oh, yeah?” Grant asks, straightening from his crouch. He rubs his bloody hands on his pants, but, not unexpectedly, it doesn’t do much to clean them. “And?”

“One of your VIPs is here,” Markham says.

Well. Isn’t that a treat.

His VIPs are what the lower ranks have taken to calling the people on his Most Wanted list—which is mostly made up of his old team and their new additions. In the six months since he got this new HYDRA off the ground, they’ve only caught one of them.

Andrew Garner died screaming. It was weeks before anyone made eye contact with Grant again.

Grant smiles; Markham, impressively, manages not to flinch. “Which one?”

“Uh, Jemma Simmons, sir,” he answers.

Grant narrows his eyes. “I thought there wasn’t a lab here.”

He doesn’t bother to keep the displeasure out of his voice; bad intel isn’t something he forgives easily, and Perez—the one who scouted this base—is about to learn that. Labs mean chemicals mean a greatly increased potential for explosions; if this base has one, it just went up at least two threat levels.

“There isn’t, sir,” Markham rushes to assure him. “We’ve been all over it. There’s nothing but storage and personnel quarters.”

The agent on the floor—another one of the creepy Koenig clones, these things are fucking everywhere—lets out a little moan. Grant kicks him.

“Now, what would Simmons be doing at a base without a lab?”

Koenig doesn’t answer. Markham does.

“That’s the thing, sir,” he says. “As far as we can tell, she was being held prisoner.”

Okay.

That’s unexpected.

“Jemma Simmons?” he checks. “About this tall, British, genius scientist?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well,” he says. “This I’ve gotta see.”

He follows Markham to the base’s nerve center, where all of the SHIELD agents have been gathered. They’re kneeling in a line across the middle of the room, hands laced behind their heads, and every single one of them looks angry and terrified.

Except Simmons.

She’s smiling—kind of weirdly. In all the time he’s known her, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so…serene. Happy, yes. Excited, yes. Angry, sad, terrified, resigned, yes. But never this peaceful.

It’s a little unsettling.

Unlike the rest of the SHIELD agents, most of whom are either cowering or glaring, she’s not looking at his people. Her eyes are fixed on the far wall, and not in an obstinate, you’re-beneath-my-notice kind of way. It’s just a wall of currently static-filled monitors, but she’s fixated on it—still with that serene smile.

“Well, that’s Simmons, all right,” he says, a little incredulous. “She was locked up?”

“Yes, sir,” Markham says. “Not in a cell, though. Looked like standard quarters, just adapted to lock from the outside instead of in.” He shrugs, adjusting his tac vest. “She had a laptop and books and everything.”

“Huh,” he says.

This is a puzzle. Still, there’s an easy way to solve it.

He crosses the room to stand in front of Simmons. The men kneeling on either side of her—basic SHIELD grunts, by the looks of them—glare. She keeps her eyes on the wall.

“Hey, Simmons,” he says. “Long time no see.”

Simmons doesn’t react. He gives it a second, then gives one of her legs a little kick. Not enough to hurt—or even knock her off-balance—but it draws her attention away from the wall.

“Oh. Hello, Ward,” she says, like she’s just noticed him. Her serene smile doesn’t waver.

He eyes her for a second, evaluating. The last time they met, Simmons tried to kill him. Since then, he’s abducted, tortured, and nearly killed a very close friend of hers—not to mention _actually_ killed another friend. But he doesn’t read any hate in her—or anger or disgust or fear. She’s just…peacefully happy.

It’s pretty creepy.

He turns to the guard kneeling next to her. “What’s with her?”

The guy lifts his chin, but otherwise ignores him.

Grant sighs, draws his gun, and shoots the guard in the shoulder. All of the collected SHIELD agents either flinch or cry out—aside from Simmons. She doesn’t even blink.

“I asked you a question,” he says.

“I don’t know, all right?” the guard spits out. He’s removed his hands from his head to apply pressure to his bleeding shoulder, and Grant graciously decides to allow it. “She’s fucking crazy, man.”

Huh.

“And how did that happen?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” the guard repeats. He’s a little unsteady on his knees, skin going pale as pain and blood loss take their toll. “All I know is, she was exposed to some kind of alien thing, disappeared for a few months, and when she showed up again, she was crazy. Our orders are to keep her from hurting herself or anyone else—we didn’t get details.”

Of course. He should’ve guessed.

“Wow.” He squats down in front of Simmons, drawing her gaze away from where it’s wandered back to the far wall. “You and me, Simmons, we’ve got something in common.”

“What’s that?” she asks. She looks vaguely curious and not at all offended to be compared to him; more evidence that there’s something wrong with her.

“We’ve got really bad luck when it comes to aliens.”

She blinks slowly. “What do you mean?”

She _sounds_ sane enough, if a little dumb, but he can see why the guard called her crazy. There’s something _vacant_ about her expression—and on someone who’s usually a genius, it’s pretty unsettling.

“Well, I had the berserker staff and that bitch Lorelei,” he explains patiently. “And you had the Chitauri virus, and now this new…whatever drove you crazy. So, you see? Bad luck.”

“The Chitauri virus _was_ unpleasant,” she says. “We do have that in common.” She frowns slightly. “But I don’t at all regret my exposure to the artifact. I’m very grateful for what it showed me.”

…Okay.

“And what did it show you?”

She smiles. “Answers.”

“Uh huh,” he says, studying her face. “Answers to what?”

“Everything,” she breathes. “Every question, every puzzle. It showed me the farthest reaches of the universe, and they were…” Her smile grows dreamy. “Beautiful.”

“Sounds like a fun time,” he says, which it does…for someone like Simmons, anyway. It still, however, leaves one very important question. “I’m guessing Coulson didn’t like those answers?”

“I tried to share them,” she says, a bit sadly. “He didn’t understand. No one understood.”

“Is that why he locked you up?” he asks, shading his voice with sympathy.

“Oh, no,” Simmons says, shaking her head. “No, that was nothing to do with the answers.”

Okay. Then he’s really got no idea what’s going on here. Why would Coulson imprison Simmons at all—let alone so far away from the rest of the team—if not for whatever drove her crazy?

(He doesn’t think she’s actually all that crazy. Just a little…distant, maybe. Her mind’s still wherever that artifact took her. Actually, something about her wide-eyed gaze reminds him uncomfortably of Raina. That might’ve been it; Coulson’s got more reason than most to hate any reminder of her.)

“Then why _did_ he lock you up?” he asks.

“He was frightened,” she says, a touch miserable. “They all were.”

Interesting. “Of you?”

“Of the artifact,” she corrects. “It’s meant to be a weapon.”

Okay. Now they’re talking.

“Really?” he asks. “What kind of weapon?”

Simmons opens her mouth to reply, but she’s interrupted by Markham.

“Sir, we’ve got SHIELD incoming,” he reports.

“What, were they napping?” Grant wonders, checking his watch. It’s been almost an hour; he was expecting them ages ago.

“ETA ten minutes,” is Perez’s contribution. For some reason, Grant showing any sign of humor seems to scare his people; mostly, they cope by pretending it didn’t happen.

Grant sighs and stands. “All right. You know the drill; pack it up. Repin, how’s it coming on those files?”

Dealing with SHIELD’s electronic data is a pain; they have to download it all to a portable drive, upload it to a computer without internet or network access, go through it with a fine-tooth comb, and _then_ upload it to their own servers. It takes forever. Still, Grant hasn’t forgotten the Trojan Skye slipped Centipede with her hard drive, and he’s not about to fall for the same trick twice. Better safe than sorry.

“All downloaded, sir,” Repin says.

“Good. Let’s move,” he orders. As his people scramble to obey, he reaches down to grab Simmons by the arm and haul her to her feet. “You’re coming with us.”

“Where are we going?” she asks, curious but unconcerned.

He wonders if the artifact made her _forget_ how much she hates him, or if she just doesn’t care anymore.

Something to investigate.

“To our base,” he says. “I’ve got some more questions for you.”

“What about the rest of them, sir?” Perez asks.

Grant sweeps his eyes over the line of kneeling agents, considering. He doesn’t recognize any of them; they’re just low-level grunts. If he didn’t know better, he’d say that their sole purpose here was taking care of Simmons.

…Actually, he _doesn’t_ know better. That’s entirely possible.

The point is, none of them have any value to him. “Kill them.”

Again, Simmons doesn’t react. She follows him docilely out of the nerve center and to the hangar, not once attempting to break his hold on her arm—actually, she’s leaning into him a little. Still, that could be justified by needing the support, as she’s been stuck kneeling for a while.

The way she doesn’t even blink at the sound of screaming behind them is a little harder to explain.

Proving that she’s not totally out of her mind, when he directs her to a seat in the Quinjet, she buckles herself in without being reminded. That seems like a good sign. That she doesn’t try to move away, or even react at all, when he takes the seat next to her may or may not be significant.

She also doesn’t have any visible reaction to take-off—but then, it’s been more than a year since they were anything resembling close. He doesn’t know whether heights were still an issue for her before her artifact encounter.

The best part of being in command—or, one of the best parts; there are actually a lot of them—is his ability to delegate. Markham’s flying, Repin’s working on combing through the files she downloaded, and Perez is checking in with the other Quinjets, so Grant is free to continue questioning Simmons.

“You know, my men just killed a whole lot of people,” he says.

He sees Repin twitch in the seat across from him and smiles to himself. He knows the _men_ thing bothers her, which is honestly half the reason he does it so often. He’s just _waiting_ for the day her inner smart-ass (which he knows exists; her SHIELD file is full of write-ups for insubordination) outweighs her fear of him. He hasn’t decided yet what he’ll do when it does—either kill her or laugh. Maybe laugh and _then_ kill her.

Or kill her and then laugh. It’s a toss-up.

“Yes,” Simmons agrees placidly. “I heard.”

“That doesn’t bother you?” he asks.

“No,” she says. “Human lives are fleeting. Death is inevitable. One way is as good as another, don’t you think?”

“Okay, then,” he says. Crazy or not, she’s definitely _different_. But that can wait. “So. Tell me about this weapon.”

“What would you like to know?” she asks easily, and he pauses, suddenly conflicted.

Whatever this weapon is, it’s powerful enough to scare Coulson into imprisoning a member of his own team a good two thousand miles away from all of her friends. That means he needs to know about it—what it is, where it is, and whether he can use it.

But he’s also _really_ curious about the way she’s reacting to him.

“Actually, let’s put that aside for a minute,” he says. He twists in his seat to face her fully, leaning in close. “Do you know who I am, Simmons?”

She did greet him by name, but that’s the only sign she’s given that she even recognizes him—and it’s totally possible she heard one of his people use his name before he entered the room. She didn’t question him about his references to the berserker staff and Lorelei, but somehow he gets the impression that if she _was_ confused, she wouldn’t actually care enough to ask.

“Of course,” she says, once again showing no reaction to his increased proximity. “You’re Ward.” She gives him another one of those serene smiles. “We used to be on a team together.”

Okay, that answers that question.

“I’ve done a lot to hurt you,” he says leadingly. “Nearly killed you. Killed one of your friends, tortured another, gave another brain damage…”

“Yes,” she agrees. “You have.” Her smile softens into something a little less distant and a lot more earnest. “But I forgive you.”

Somehow, that’s less satisfying than he thought it would be. (Which isn’t to say it’s not satisfying at _all_.)

“Well, thank you, Simmons,” he says, returning her smile. Repin winces. “That means a lot.”

“You’re welcome.”

Yeah. He doesn’t think she’s actually crazy, but he can definitely see where everyone got that idea.

“So.” He takes her hand in his, watching her face as he smooths his thumb over her knuckles. She looks down at their hands curiously, but doesn’t tense or try to move away. “Back to the weapon. What kind of weapon is it?”

“It’s Kree,” she says.

He…has no idea what that means. “Kree?”

“Like the city beneath San Juan,” she offers helpfully. “The Kree were an alien race that visited Earth millennia ago. They created the Inhumans.”

Inhumans he’s heard of.

“You mean Gifteds,” he says, turning her hand over in his. “Like Skye.”

“Yes,” she confirms. “As a precaution, when the Kree created the Inhumans, they also created a weapon capable of wiping them out. That’s what the artifact is.”

She’s still using her dreamy tone; there’s none of the enthusiasm or excitement he’s used to hearing when she explains something. This weapon—or artifact, whatever—might have made her a lot more biddable, but it also took a lot of her spark.

It’s just as well. The old Simmons was more trouble than she was worth. This one, though…this one he can use.

“So you were affected by something meant to kill people like Skye,” he summarizes. “Well, that explains why Coulson locked you up. She always was his favorite.”

“Yes.”

There’s no emotion behind the agreement at all. She’s not in denial about Coulson’s favoritism, not bitter about it or about being locked up. Actually, considering her general tone, he’s pretty sure being locked up didn’t bother her at all.

Still…

“Seems pretty cruel of him, though,” he tests. He doesn’t know how much effect it has, but he makes sure to keep his body language open and his tone sympathetic. Just because she’s apparently forgiven all of his past wrongs doesn’t mean she won’t be upset by new ones—best to play nice. “Keeping you prisoner in a base without a lab. You’re not even allowed to science anymore?”

She frowns a little, and for a second, he thinks he’s about to get her old speech about _science_ not being a verb.

Then her expression clears. “I don’t want to.”

What?

“You don’t want to?” he asks, incredulous. Somehow, that’s even weirder than her having no reaction to the brutal murder of her fellow agents. Simmons _always_ wants to science. He once had to carry her back to her bunk after she collapsed while trying to run an experiment with a 103 degree fever. “At all?”

“Science is about discovery,” she says. “The artifact showed me all the answers. There’s nothing left to discover.”

He thinks she looks a little sad, behind her patient smile, but that might just be his imagination.

“Huh.” He trails his fingers of his free hand up her inner arm, thinking. Interestingly, her breathing speeds up a little. “This artifact. It didn’t hurt you?”

Beyond turning her into this creepy pod-version of herself, that is.

“No,” she says, staring down at her arm.

“But it’s a weapon.”

Her eyes flick back up to meet his. “I’m not Inhuman.”

“So it doesn’t hurt people who aren’t Inhuman,” he muses. Good to know. “But it did…what, disappear you?”

“It swallowed me whole,” she says, serene.

He pauses. Repin looks up from her laptop. “It what?”

“It swallowed me whole,” she repeats. “We were one. I knew all of the artifact, and the artifact knew all of me. It saw into my soul and judged me worthy, so it granted me a gift.”

Well, this just gets…creepier and creepier, doesn’t it?

“The gift being the answer to all your questions,” he says.

“Yes.”

“So.” He lets go of her and sits back in his seat, noting the way she flexes her hand—like she’s holding back the urge to reach for him. “If I take this artifact from SHIELD, will it…swallow me?”

A weapon that scares SHIELD enough to imprison Simmons is one thing; a weapon that’s going to turn against him at the first opportunity is another. She sure looks to be enjoying her post-swallowing state, and it’s definitely working to his benefit, but that doesn’t mean he wants it to happen to him.

“It might,” she says.

“And will it give me a gift?” he asks.

“Are you worthy?” she asks. It’s not a mocking question; she sounds genuinely curious.

He can’t help it; he laughs. Repin flinches and looks longingly at the front compartment. Simmons just smiles, like his amusement makes her happy.

“No,” he says. “No, I’m definitely not worthy.”

“Then you won’t receive a gift,” she says sadly. “I’m sorry.”

He’s really, really not.

“Will it hurt me?” he asks. “Does it punish the unworthy?”

She blinks, surprised. “No.”

Well, this is sounding better. There are many, many more questions to be asked—he’s going to need a lot more intel before he takes any action—but they can wait. For the moment, he really should decide what to do with her.

His first impulse, hearing that Simmons was at the base, was a slow, painful death. Skye might be Coulson’s favorite, but Simmons has always been May’s, and punishing May is at the very top of his to-do list. Receiving Simmons’ body in bloody, unrecognizable pieces would’ve gone a long way to accomplishing that.

But that was just his first impulse. Seeing Simmons as she is—vacantly happy, uninterested in what used to be her passion, totally passive and agreeable—makes him think there are better ways to use her.

What would upset SHIELD more, he wonders? Seeing Simmons dead—or seeing her at his side, happily serving HYDRA?

He’s pretty sure he knows the answer to that question. He’s also pretty sure he knows how to make it happen.

“What you said before,” he says slowly. “That’s not exactly true, is it?”

“What isn’t?” she asks. She looks a little concerned, like the idea that she might have inadvertently lied upsets her.

“Science isn’t just about discovery,” he says. He was treated to more than enough lectures on the subject during his brief stint with Whitehall. “It’s not enough to know something for yourself, right? You need to prove it to the rest of the community.”

Simmons straightens in her seat, eyes widening slightly.

“You said Coulson didn’t understand your answers,” he continues, leaning in close again. She follows suit—or at least, as much as she can with her harness still buckled.

It occurs to him to wonder how long it’s been since she’s had any kind of physical contact. He knows what it’s like to be touch-starved, to be locked up for months without so much as the brush of another hand against his—how it can eat away at a person—and she’s showing the signs.

Whatever that artifact did to her, it was all mental. She’s still human, still in need of skin contact. And somehow he can’t see any of Coulson’s people dropping by to hug her, not if they were scared enough to stash her on the other side of the country.

It’s a thought to follow up on—it’ll be interesting to see just how _much_ contact she’ll welcome—but later.

For now, he gets to the point. “Did you try to prove them? Or did you just try to tell him what you saw?”

“Oh.” She looks seriously distressed by the question, although a layer of underlying serenity remains. It’s…weird. “I never thought of that.”

“You know, I have labs,” he says. “Very extensive, well-equipped labs. Would you like to use them, see about proving some of your answers?”

She looks at him with shining eyes. “Really? May I?”

He laughs, sitting back in his seat. Never in a million years would he have imagined Jemma Simmons might _ask_ for the privilege of working in his labs. It’s the best possible outcome: he’s not into brainwashing, but a willing scientist is an effective scientist—threats leave them inefficient and sloppy.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think we can work something out.”

And if she ends up at his side in more than one way, well…she’s touch-starved and he’s got ghosts to chase away. It’ll be mutually beneficial.


End file.
